A Chance in Hell(mouth)
by PedanticAnticQueen
Summary: The title is insipid. The fic isn't. Spoilers for "Entropy" and beyond. Buffy and Spike sort their issues out, but it ain't easy if your relationship is a hotbed of dysfunction
1. Default Chapter

Summary: Post crazy happenings of "Entropy", Buffy and Spike have a brief chat.   
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon. Not mine  
  
Author's Note: Bastards!!! Some people played a nasty April Fool's Joke on me by posting the air date of 'Entropy' as April1, complete with a Wildfeed! Hah! This is just a little exercise to rev-up for the Spike Spin-Off  
  
Spike looked up expectantly when he heard his crypt door slam in the most telling way. Buffy had always chosen expressions of violence to herald her arrival, whether she inflicted them on the door, on his crypt or on his heart. Why should today be any different?  
  
He had been waiting for this, waiting for her the whole day with a bottle in his hand serving as a necessary anesthetic. Of course it was this business of drowning away the pain of rejection that had gotten him in even deeper shit in the first place but right now he was just too tired to care.   
  
Shagging Xander's demon girl was fun as far as fun went and he had to admit it was a pleasant reprieve from the ennui and depression that characterized his Slayer-less days. But in the harsh light of day he became painfully aware of the desperation inherent in the act, facilitated by the recklessness of those who had nothing left to lose and nothing else worth living for. What he genuinely appreciated about that ex-demon was her no-nonsense approach to sex. She had been around long enough to know the score and hadn't demanded declarations of his desire or his love. Cheap thrills and purely recreational was what it was, unfettered by illusions of how things should be and reveling in the way things truly were.  
  
And yet here he was, post-tryst and unhappy as ever.   
  
Somewhere he knew Anya was nursing a broken heart coupled with paralyzing guilt and he hoped that she was doing a better job of it than he was.  
  
He hadn't really expected his life to degenerate into one of those partner-swapping, swinging shows that he bypassed in favor of 'Passions' but then in a moment of clarity (such as those one gets after crossing a certain threshold of inebriation) he realized that he had become a player in what must have been God's favorite soap.   
  
He was just drunk enough to appreciate the irony of his circumstances as Sunnydale's newest vamp lothario (a post previously occupied by none other than the Ensouled! One himself) when the telltale crash of a door sent him spiraling back into unpleasant sobriety.   
  
Shite. The Slayer.  
  
Footsteps on the upper level that suggested that she was indignant and infuriated. And for one moment, Spike thought Good. Let her come to me. I'm so bloody tired of meeting her halfway for once I'd like to see her grovel.   
  
So much for the romantic antihero pose of resting idly in a chair with a whiskey bottle dangling from his fingertips, shirt undone. He is up and out of his chair before any Pavlovian dog has the chance to salivate. He tries not to dwell on how pathetically domesticated he is but he can't help it. She is stimulus and he is forever doomed to respond.   
  
Suddenly she is there with him in the ruins of his abode, glowing and glistening in marked contrast with the devastation that surrounds her. Devastation she has unrepentantly wrought on him. She is wearing a delicate lace blouse over skintight jeans and she looks gorgeous. He wonders if she does this on purpose, just to rub a little salt into the wounds of his already lacerated heart. He looks at the murderous expression on her face and becomes half-fearful and half-overjoyed at the imminent prospect of dying at her hands in a jealous rage. And then contemplating the irony if ever that situation came to be, he couldn't help but laugh.  
  
This unsettles her. Unnerves her just enough that he can see the subtle cracks in Fort Buffy.  
  
"This is funny to you?" she asks coldly. He is tempted to answer Yes and give the all too popular argument that evil undead things such as he found matters like these and world hunger and genocide extremely hilarious but he can see that she is not in a jesting mood.  
  
Instead he sits down on a chair to rest because he feels so very tired.  
  
"If nothing else, love, I can appreciate the humor inherent in the situation."  
  
She seems about to retort but she notices that his delivery is off. There is no snarkiness or insolent tone of voice. She doesn't know what to say to that and wisely chooses to remain silent.  
  
He puts his head in his hands as if he could will away everything bad that had ever happened between him and Buffy. Will away a night of mindless sex that nullified what precious sliver of a chance he had left. Will away a stupid entrepreneurial scheme that left him destitute. He has been here before, thinking of the endless possibilities if only he had done one thing different or said one thing less that could have altered the inevitable outcome.   
  
"So I take it you know…?" He says, broaching what is best left unspoken.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"How?" He looks up to meet her eyes, watches every expression on her face.  
  
"I saw. Cameras courtesy of the Lords of Dim." She suddenly seems fixated on her boot, the floor, and the hem of her shirt. "Xander saw it too, and so did Willow… And Dawn…"  
  
"And you." He finishes for her.  
  
"Yes. And me." She stops fiddling with her shirt and looks him straight in the eyes. "Why did you do it?"  
He remains quiet. He can't quite verbalize the desperation, the sense of sheer hopelessness and hurt that finally drove him to seek comfort where it was given. He can't quite say how hard it is, day in and day out, trying to keep his dreams alive in the face of her constant and cruel rejections. He cannot speak of the loneliness that gnaws at him everyday and his isolation from anything resembling warmth, be it human or demon. He was a poet once, but he has forgotten how to translate raw emotions into communicable words.  
  
He only has one answer for her that somehow sums it all up.  
  
"I don't know." 


	2. 2

Part Deux of A Chance in Hell(mouth)  
  
Author's note: Of course I couldn't just leave that lying there now could I? But inspiration struck at the most ungodly of hours last night- my muse likes to make a doormat out of my life, coming and going as she pleases. Until I wrestle the temperamental bitch into submission I won't have chapters running for you like clockwork. And yes, the Spike Spin-Off should be coming soon, but only after I follow this white rabbit down the hole.  
  
************  
  
He knows he has hurt her and a part of him is glad.  
  
Despite the remorse and the regret there is a part of him that is ecstatic at being able to break through the walls she has carefully erected around herself and cause her pain. He doesn't know if it's his demon that's enjoying this or if its William's hurt pride.   
  
But lo and behold, there it is.   
  
A smidgen of self-satisfaction.   
  
Buffy notices the look on his face and she feels a wave of revulsion wash over her. It took every ounce of self-discipline she had not to break down in tears in front of her friends last night. She spent a fitful night in her room, her face buried in her pillow to muffle the sobs so she wouldn't wake Dawn. She has taken pains today to look poised and calm and unruffled. And he has the nerve to be so smug about it. She feels like throwing up.   
  
Before she can stop herself the accusations come right out of her mouth.  
  
"Do you have any idea what it was like for Xander, watching you fuck his fiancée right   
there on the Magic Box table?" She is angry now and getting worse by the second.  
  
"I'll bet it was terrible." He says, nonchalantly taking a cigarette out of his duster pocket and firing it up, the very picture of indifference. "I would have given anything to see the look on his face, but then I was having too much fun right where I was." He looks up at her with a sly smile as he says this, mentally remarking to himself that he must really have a death wish.  
  
She is seething now, every muscle in her body taut and obviously restraining herself from the need to do him some serious bodily harm. She knows that he is deliberately provoking her and she won't give him the impression of an effect. Over her dead body.  
  
He has a feeling he's hitting gold. He is drunk enough to pursue it. "I don't see why he's bitching about it since he was the one who left her. At the bleedin' altar too. Nobody should ever do that to anyone they love- it's heartless." He pauses to take a drag of his cigarette, then resumes his tirade. "And now he sees her with somebody else and he has an epiphany about how much he wants her back? Where's the logic in that?"  
  
"He doesn't want her back." She replies, getting the feeling that this conversation wasn't exactly about Xander and Anya anymore. "It was a real revelation, I guess, about the kind of person she really was. Maybe it was better that he didn't marry her because on some level he knew she was capable of doing this."   
  
He considers this, then laughs bitterly. "Oh, yes pet. I forgot. Demon and all that." He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "It's a good thing that he gave her the boot then, before it was too late. Wouldn't want your precious Scoobies sullied by our lot, would you Slayer?" He hates it when she gets self-righteous. He can't help feeling his self-worth diminish every time she reminds him of what he is and what he isn't. He realizes that he wants to be alone.  
  
"Is this why you're here then? To take the moral high road and rub it in my face?" He doesn't even acknowledge her as he says this, just lets the words come out as dry and jaded as he is feeling at the moment. "I don't need the lesson, pet. I'm the evil monster and I can't feel anything remember? So go on home, Slayer before this blood-sucking fiend wastes anymore of your time." There is no sarcasm now, just resignation and some indefinable element that she never heard in his voice before.  
  
She came to the crypt looking for some closure, something that will finally put all the pieces of the puzzle into place, but she leaves just as perplexed as ever.   
  
She sits in her room, numb because of everything that had transpired and with a nagging thought about what it was in him that was so different.  
  
After much thought and contemplation, she finally realizes that it was defeat. 


	3. 3

Chapter Three  
  
  
When Buffy thinks no one is looking, she often steals glances over at Anya. She has suddenly developed a very morbid curiosity about her, wanting to localize what it is that made Spike sleep with her. It is after she undertakes a rigorous study of her features that she realizes for the very first time that Anya is actually quite beautiful. She studies the svelte body, the shiny hair and the classic features and she can't help but feel inadequate in comparison.  
  
Buffy never used to feel this way about Anya before.   
  
They were never exceptionally close friends or shared anything that could remotely be termed as intimacy, but she always fell into the realm of 'safe'. An area of mutual amiability and automatic trust.   
  
Of course she didn't know and could not be held accountable for her grievance against Buffy, but that was just logic talking. One part of Buffy is trying to pacify the other with reason, with claims of maturity and the argument that it was just Spike anyway, the classic vampire skank, and she really shouldn't give a damn since the fling was long-flung and he was just a dumbass, nothing to get excited over.   
  
But it doesn't really matter, because no matter how good the arguments are and no matter how hard she tries to convince herself that the pain isn't there, it still hurts.  
  
She is staring at Anya from across the research table, the infamous piece of furniture that was the scene of the ultimate act of indiscretion. The defiled table is symbolic really, of the chasm that has sprung up between the two women and the dissent in their happy little Scooby gang. Buffy feels the urge to hack it into little pieces of wood which she will use as stakes to impale Spike's little black heart.  
  
Willow, Tara and Dawn were otherwise occupied for the day, leaving the research to the two women left. It is awkward as hell and the air is laden with a tense silence. For all the tentative pretenses at civility there is still a running undercurrent of jealousy and resentment. All their interaction for the past week has been strained, forced and somewhat feigned. Like today.  
  
  
Suddenly Anya snaps closed the copy of the Necronomicon which she was perusing, putting her in direct eye contact with Buffy.  
  
"Stop it."  
  
Buffy is shocked into silence, but she recovers. "Stop what?"  
  
Anya sighs, as if frustrated with the evasiveness. "That. The staring. I know that you're pissed off at me so we might as well have it out now before it gets any worse."  
  
Buffy sputters. "I… not… I'm not pissed at you, ok? Whatever gave you that idea?"  
  
Anya rolls her eyes. "Oh please. Every time I'm with you it's like I'm always walking on eggshells. You might not say anything to me, but I can feel it. You don't have to pretend that you like me and you don't have to pretend that you're ok with everything because you are so obviously not."  
  
She takes a deep breath and she continues. "I'm sorry I slept with your boyfriend and I'm sorry that you had to see it. You can hate me as much as you like but I honestly didn't know that there was anything going on between the two of you."  
  
Buffy protests. "Spike's not my boyfriend and to be honest, I don't really care about whatever it is that you two do together. But I reserve the right to think that what you did to Xander was wrong."  
  
Anya laughs sarcastically. "God Buffy, that is such a load of crap. You don't have to lie to me because I don't really care either way. But you have to be honest with yourself. The real reason you can't look me in the eye anymore or the way you get all awkward isn't about what I did to Xander. You know damn straight that if I had slept with anybody apart from Spike you wouldn't give a shit."  
  
That's enough. Buffy gets up, having passed her threshold of tolerance a few sentences into Anya's tirade. "You can think what you want Anya, but I really don't have time for this."  
  
Anya gets up too, in the spirit of what it is she's trying to communicate. "I don't think so Buffy. If you leave and you try to cover this up, I doubt we'll ever be friends again. You'll find little excuses to hate me, saying that I'm a bad person or maybe I'm still a demon where it counts and you can conveniently forget about all these years we were actually sort of friends. Just because I slept with Spike and you don't have the guts to admit that it's really killing you inside. So if you really want to salvage what we can from this I think we should talk about what's bothering you. Now."  
  
"Well what do you want to hear from me?" Buffy is roused by the demanding tone in Anya's voice and she can feel herself bristling. "What's it going to take to satisfy you and your quest for vengeance, Anyanka? Did you want to hear about how bad it felt, or how it was such a huge betrayal of trust? I mean, it never gets any easier. Just when you think that you can be certain about a few things in this world and you meet some people who you think love you for who you are, the carpet gets pulled out from under your feet and you're back to square one. And I'm so tired of starting over, of losing people…" Her voice trails off and she feels the wounds being ripped open again, negating the healing she was supposedly undergoing. "It just gets so hard."  
  
"And I realized that maybe I'm just not meant to be happy. For some people everything comes easy, and they can lead blissful lives without ever knowing about vampires or demons or Hellmouths. But for me, I have to fight for every little ounce I get. And somehow I still manage to have it taken away from me every time. One day soon there isn't going to be anything left, and what am I going to do then? What else do I have left to live for? Some days I just want to give up already because I know I'm just going to keep fighting something I can't win. It's never so bad that it can't get any worse and I'm afraid that if I live any longer, I'm probably never going to stop bottoming out."  
  
She is interrupted by a hand extending a tissue towards her face and she takes it gratefully, not even realizing that she was crying. Anya is now patting her gently on the back, having lost all desire for confrontation.  
  
"I wish that I could tell you that it would get better but I'm old enough to know that it usually doesn't."   
  
Buffy noisily blows her nose. "Anya, the thing about reassurance is that you're supposed to lie to people."  
  
"Oh. Well, in that case, you'll be fine." She pats Buffy on the back again. "Are you still mad at me?"  
  
Buffy thinks about it, really thinks about the inebriation, the bitterness and the unparalleled agony that comes from getting dumped at the altar. For the first time it dawns on her that it was not all about her.  
  
At the moment, she is sincerely able to reply "no", although the answer could be subject to change with the passage of some time. 


	4. 4

Chapter 4  
  
Author's note: See the end of this chapter. (It's important to read it before you pass judgment but after you've read this part of the story.)  
  
Disclaimer: Plot, situations, circumstances and characters are owned by ME and Joss Whedon. I'm just filling in the blanks.  
  
************  
  
There's something wrong.  
  
This is the first thought that goes through Buffy's head as soon as she steps inside her house.   
  
Her instincts are warning her of danger, and all of her internal alarms are ringing. There is a sense of foreboding in the house and in the air is the faint but unmistakable message that 'something bad is going to happen.'  
  
Immediately Buffy thinks of Dawn and she rushes up the staircase calling out her name. She sprints to Dawn's room to see if her sister is home from school and she finds it empty and neat- two indicators that it has been uninhabited for the past few hours.   
  
She knows that she should feel relieved that her sister is in a relatively safe place but there is still this nagging sensation in the back of her mind.   
  
She goes to Willow's room, to see if her roommate is around and she finds it similarly empty.  
  
She's the only living thing in the house.   
  
But she is not alone.   
  
Slowly she descends the stairs, as if prolonging something undesired but ultimately inevitable. She can almost hear her heart beating wildly although there is no apparent cause for the anxiety. At least not yet.  
  
She's never been the type to give in to fear or intimidation and she goes about her routine as if there's nothing amiss. As if there isn't an intruder in the house.  
  
He doesn't decide to announce his presence until she's walked into the kitchen.   
  
She pauses from her perusal of the refrigerator's meager contents when she sees a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye and the telltale click indicative of a lighter being put to use.  
  
"You can't smoke in here" she says, not even bothering to look up. Her mind is somewhere else, trying to decide between Campbell's Chicken and Stars or Cream of Mushroom.  
  
She stops trying to look for buried treasure or edible leftovers and she straightens up to slam the fridge door shut. She doesn't even bother to look at him as she utters the next words.  
  
"Get out."   
  
It comes naturally to her, to the two of them. What might strike some people as uncivil is as common to them as 'pass the salt' or 'bless you'. It is just another one of the many things that is wrong in the hotbed of dysfunction that is their relationship.  
  
However, she doesn't expect what he does next.  
  
In the blink of an eye he has her pinned between the wall and his body.  
  
In her surprise she looks at his face and she sees a crazed glint in his eyes. His hair is disheveled and his clothes are in dire need of a pressing. It is such a marked contrast to the smooth and polished image he usually exudes and immediately she can tell that something is wrong. Oh God, she thinks. Is he drunk? Then another, more alarming thought enters her head.  
  
He can hurt me now.  
  
"If you really wanted me to stay away, then why do you keep inviting me in?" He says, interrupting her frantic thoughts.   
  
He can see her eyes and they're wide with something he hasn't seen in a long time on her face. Fear.   
  
Fear of him.  
  
There is a part of him that is mollified by this, mollified by the fact that even if she doesn't think him worthy of her at least she thinks he's a worthy opponent. And there is another part of him, maybe the little sliver of humanity or the last trace that is William that despairs.  
  
He's touching her now, letting his hands roam across her body in a rough and possessive way.   
  
"I'm not going to leave here until you admit that you feel something- anything for me" his voice breaking as he says this, as if some feeling is strangling the words until he has to force them out.  
  
Her eyes have taken on that glassy and passive look, like that time that he took her on the alley wall. Nobody home. It is like she has dissociated herself from her body and retired to some safe place in her brain where she can play the observer instead of participant.  
  
This angers him and he becomes rougher, more demanding. He starts to take off her jeans.  
  
"No." Buffy says, her protest coming out very softly.  
  
He doesn't listen. Instead he takes her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him, to really see him.  
  
"I know that there's a part of you that loves me. You can deny is as much as you want. But you know it's true. You want me." There is a pleading note in his tone, as if saying it will make it true. His hands are still tugging on the buttons of her jeans, trying to pry them open.  
  
Her hands fly up to bat him away, to shove him off. She succeeds in getting him off her, but as she tries to walk away to the living room he grabs her by the arms and pushes her to the floor.  
  
"Spike, stop it" she says, but her voice is still lacking conviction.  
  
"No, Buffy. You can't just keep pushing me away. I love you. You might not want to see it because it doesn't fit into your picture of who you think you are or who you want to be. But you're going to realize that you love me, even if I have to make you. Even if I have to prove it." What's frightening is that as he's speaking his voice has taken on a slightly manic tone, full of grim determination. He's straddling her, using his weight to keep her in a prone position, his hands working again on laces and zippers and buckles.   
  
Buffy squirms beneath him, tries to buck him off her. She can tell that this isn't going anywhere nice.   
  
"Spike, no."   
  
He doesn't pay any attention to her protests and becomes even more forceful in holding her down. He has heard all of this before, usually as a prelude to her capitulation.   
  
"Spike, no."  
  
He's not listening. Instead he forces his lips to hers, tries to drown out the sounds she's making.   
  
He is so distracted by the sensation of kissing Buffy again that he doesn't realize that she isn't kissing him back. He also doesn't notice the act of her leg freeing itself to knee him in the stomach so she can get away.   
He feels the sharp pain. Instinct and anger take over and before he knows it he has hit her back. Hard. Her head is flung to the side from the force of his blow, and the expression on her face is stunned.   
  
He doesn't know any other way to make her realize that she needs him. Doesn't know any other way to make her realize that he needs her. All that is going through his mind at the moment is that he doesn't want to lose her again. Not when they were so close to finally getting somewhere.   
  
In his clouded mind the only thing he can think of is that they belong together. He can feel it in his gut, like all other things he knows to be true. It is this single-minded determination to get his point across that has clouded his better judgment.  
  
He almost doesn't hear the soft and muffled sounds that are coming out of her mouth.   
  
She's crying.  
  
All of a sudden, it hits him. What he was about to do, what he was about to attempt. His hands still and cease from their clumsy attempts to disrobe her.  
  
The self-loathing and revulsion kick in, just as Buffy finally comes to a decision and knocks him off her with a well-timed and perfectly executed uppercut.   
  
He scrambles to his feet and he watches her stand. Her hands are clenched into fists as if she can barely contain the anger and betrayal that she feels.  
  
All he can think is that he has messed up. There's no going back from here.  
  
He looks into her eyes and all he can see is hatred and anger. He doesn't blame her.  
  
"Buffy… I'm sorry… I didn't know… I…"   
  
That's all he can seem to say at the moment. Seems to have forgotten how to say anything else.  
  
"Get out Spike. I don't ever want to see you again. Ever."  
  
He shakes his head a bit, like a man just rising out of a stupor.  
  
"Don't make me say it again Spike. I don't want you near my friends, near my family or anywhere near me. If you ever try to touch me again, I will kill you."  
  
He knows that she means it and he can feel the last shred of hope inside him die.   
  
He quickly leaves the house through the back door, not wanting to cause her any more inconvenience or damage than he already has.  
In his haste to abscond from the scene of the crime, he doesn't see her crumple into a sobbing heap on the floor.  
  
TBC  
  
****  
  
Author's note: This is the very first time I have ever attempted to write about anything like this. This is the hardest thing I have ever written and it took me days to hash it out. I have a problem with the way rape is romanticized in some pieces of fiction and I decided to portray it in the context of BTVS, without completely vilifying the situation. I know that this is a very controversial topic, and I am completely against rape. (As a woman, this is the stuff of my nightmares.) However, as Milan Kundera says, fiction is not only a realm of suspended disbelief but also one of suspended judgment. I want to explore the motives and internal conflicts of the character driven to commit this act of extreme violation. I want to depict the ambiguities without censure- I don't want to condemn but I'm not going to justify what Spike is trying to do. I just want to understand. 


	5. 5

Chapter 5  
  
"the smoke in my bedroom which is always burning  
  
worsens you, motorcycle Icarus  
  
you are black and leathery and lean and  
  
you cannot distinguish between sex and nicotine  
  
anytime, it's all one thing for you-  
  
cigarette, phallus, sacrificial fire-  
  
…  
  
…O baby, what Hell to be Greek in this country-  
  
without wings but burning anyway"  
  
- Gwendolyn MacEwen, from "Poem Improvised Around A First Line"  
  
  
  
Over the passage of some two odd years, Buffy became accustomed to hearing Spike tell her he loves her.  
  
When she first heard it, she didn't take the words to heart or grant them any significance whatsoever. After all, she was too busy trying not to hurl with disgust from his fumbling and awkward if not earnest and ill-timed declaration of affection. Everything that came out of his mouth then was heard, but not *heard* in any real sense of the word. They were simply sounds- wisps of air shaped by throat and tongue and mouth and teeth, insubstantial and unimportant.  
  
He never really spoke of it again after he realized that there was no hope for reciprocation of interest. But Buffy couldn't help but be aware that it was always bubbling under the surface of his skin, just patiently waiting for one good day. Sometimes it even manifested in seemingly benign sentences like "Hundred forty-seven days yesterday... One-forty-eight today" or "Got my good luck charm with me"; endearments and emotion unsaid but communicated nonetheless. For someone once so oblivious, she learned to read the subtext.  
  
When it was once more proven that anything was possible on a Hellmouth and she did reciprocate a smidgen, finally giving him the slightest justification for hope- well, there was no stopping him from saying it over and over. Practically every other utterance that came out of his mouth was either preceded or concluded by "I love you."  
  
Even in the most unlikely moments, such as when she was kicking his ass or in an exchange of acrimonious words out it would come twisted into a barb for his verbal arsenal; "I love you." In bed, after a stunning feat of fellatio or any other of those activities that would result in his self- control slipping and finally dissipating into the ultimate surrender he would say it as if it were a secret shame and he couldn't help it; "I love you." When she was leaving his crypt and hastily throwing her clothes on, not even deigning to meet his eyes he would toss it out like an entreaty for her to stay- "I. Love. You." Not that it made much difference because she would leave him anyway, but he still kept on saying it. When he would visit her for a brief tryst at their alley during break, smoothing her hair he would whisper it in her ear; "I love you", as if it were a mantra that could make minimum wage, semi-skilled mind-numbing labor that much more bearable.  
  
Time and time again she's heard those three words, with all the variations on emotion, intonation and delivery that could ever possibly articulated by any one person.  
  
And one day she finally began to listen.  
  
No matter how much she may deny it, each time she heard it, it seeped in deeper and deeper into her psyche until it eventually got assimilated into what Buffy knew to be true. It was a gradual erosion, like water that carved cliffs and canyons- barely noticeable, but effective all the same. The change is subtle, imperceptible but eventually, undeniably and irrevocably *there*.  
  
Which makes everything that transpired between them that much harder.  
  
It was as if the kitchen sink had sprouted legs and decided to run away from the house; something so familiar and taken for granted that it never even occurs to you in your wildest dreams that it could possibly not be there tomorrow. It was almost like an integral part of the scenery was missing and despite all of her innate denial of it, Buffy's world was askew.  
  
It was months after that day that love came calling and slipped shamefacedly out the back door when Buffy finally realized that she missed him.  
  
All of those declarations of his love and undying devotion she had indexed somewhere in her memories always came to the forefront when she thought about how it had gone so horribly wrong.  
  
She has been analyzing this in her brain for the past few months, sifting through the facts and sorting through them, desperate for a way for things to make sense.  
  
How could he say he loved her when she saw him and Anya so engrossed in each other? There was kissing and touching and intimacy but she couldn't bear to watch. It made her sick to her stomach to think that all of his words were empty and meaningless and as insignificant as she originally assessed. All of those times he would stroke her cheek and hold her when he thought she was asleep. All of those sweet endearments that he whispered as he murmured into her skin, his melodramatic speeches and his angry frustrated tirades. His voice breaking with genuine anguish he could no longer conceal when she told him she didn't want to play anymore games. The hopeful look in his eyes when she walked into his crypt the morning after she destroyed it and the barely concealed relief in his voice in seeing that she came back to him and not Riley. The way his face looked after Glory had had her way with him- the hopeless note in his voice as he said he'd rather die than have to see her in pain.  
  
False.  
  
She couldn't think of it now. She didn't want to think of it now, couldn't take it.  
  
And she didn't want to think about why. 


End file.
